“So,” Holt said quietly, “how’s divorced life treating you?”
Tom sighed deeply, the question clearly touching on painful territory. “Honestly? It’s a relief. Victoria and I should never have gotten married in the first place.”
“What happened?” Holt asked, though he suspected he knew the answer. Small-town gossip had a way of traveling, even to FBI offices in Virginia.
“Same old story,” Tom said with a bitter laugh. “High school sweethearts, family pressure, the assumption that just because you dated as teenagers, you weren’t meant to be together forever. My parents chose Victoria for me because she came from the ‘right’ family, had the ‘right’ connections. Her parents chose me because I was wealthy and from the right Sandpiper Shores family.”
“Arranged marriages don’t usually go well,” Holt stated. “Or second marriages.” He shook his head, thinking of his own disastrous second marriage to Lillian.
“The truth is,” Tom continued, “I spent nearly forty years married to a woman who never really knew me, and I never really knew her. We played the parts we thought we were supposed to play, but underneath it all, we were strangers.”
“Any regrets?” Holt asked. “About the divorce, I mean.”
Tom was quiet for a moment, staring into his coffee cup as if it held answers to questions he’d been avoiding for years. “Nope. Just the glaring realization of what I’ve always known. I married the wrong woman.”
“I can sort of relate to that,” Holt told him, before they fell into comfortable silence.
Holt found himself thinking about June sleeping in her daughter’s house just a few miles away, probably wondering what the summer would bring now that their carefully maintained distance had been shattered. Tomorrow, Holt would throw himself into the investigation, using work as a buffer against the emotional complications of their reunion.
But tonight, as he finished his coffee and prepared to drive home to the lighthouse cottage, Holt would allow himself to think. Think about the past thirty-eight years, which was a long time to carry regrets. Maybe it was time to find out if some stories deserved better endings than the ones they’d settled for.
15
TOM
The drive to Point Drive felt longer than usual, though it was only ten minutes from the fire scene to the exclusive neighborhood that housed Sandpiper Shores’ wealthiest residents. Tom Morrison gripped the steering wheel of his police cruiser, his bandaged head throbbing in rhythm with his mounting frustration.
Point Drive curved along the highest cliffs overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, each sprawling estate positioned to maximize both privacy and the spectacular ocean views. The Morrison family mansion sat at the very tip of the point, a three-story Victorian monstrosity that had been in his family for four generations. Complete with its own private beach, stone jetty, and boathouse, it was exactly the kind of ostentatious display his ex-wife Victoria loved.
Which was why she was still living there, despite their divorce being finalized over a year ago.
Tom pulled through the ornate iron gates and up the circular driveway, noting that Victoria’s silver Mercedes was parked beside what he assumed was their son Clive’s pickup truck. Theirdaughter Sienna’s red convertible was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean much. She could be anywhere, doing whatever it was that socialites did with their time.
The front door opened before he could knock, revealing Victoria Gilbert Morrison in all her perfectly preserved glory. At fifty-eight, she looked exactly like what she was: a woman who’d spent decades maintaining her appearance through expensive treatments and designer clothes. Her blonde hair was styled in the same sophisticated bob she’d worn since college, and her makeup was flawless despite the late hour.
“Tom,” Victoria greeted him with the cool politeness she’d perfected over their twenty-five-year marriage. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”
“We need to talk,” Tom said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. The foyer looked exactly the same as it had when he’d moved out. It was all marble and crystal and carefully arranged fresh flowers that probably cost more than most people’s weekly grocery budget.
“About what?” Victoria asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.
“Your townhouse in Miami will be finished in four weeks,” Tom said without preamble. “The contractor called this afternoon. Final inspections are scheduled for next Wednesday.”
“How wonderful,” Victoria replied, though her expression suggested the opposite. “But I’ve decided to stay for the entire summer. The social season here is just picking up, and there are so many events planned.”
Tom felt his blood pressure spike. “That’s not what we agreed, Victoria. You said you’d be out as soon as you knew your townhouse was ready.”
“Plans change, darling,” Victoria said with the dismissive tone that had driven him crazy for years. “Surely you can manage a few more weeks at that quaint little inn.”
“That quaint little inn is costing me a fortune,” Tom said through gritted teeth. “Money I don’t have because I’m building you a brand new townhouse and furnishing it according to your specifications.”
Victoria’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched with practiced disdain. “You could always stay at the Sandpiper Grand Hotel. Much more suitable for someone in your position.”
“I can’t afford the Grand, and you know it,” Tom shot back. “Every penny I have is going toward your new place.”
“Yes, well,” Victoria smiled with malicious sweetness, “I suppose staying at your high school sweetheart’s family inn is more economical. I’m sure Margo will knock some money off your tab if you ask her. After all, you and her mother do have history.”
The barb hit exactly where Victoria had intended, but Tom refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. “Where are Clive and Sienna?”
